


To whom shall I pray to

by AngelsMayDie



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Hades!Doyoung, M/M, Persephone!Jaehyun, toolazytotag!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 20:48:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14089356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelsMayDie/pseuds/AngelsMayDie
Summary: The irony is that Doyoung is a god who receives prayers but who could never utter one.





	To whom shall I pray to

**Author's Note:**

> Doyoung as Hades because he looks the best in Boss MV  
> Jaehyun as Persephone because he looks best in Touch MV  
> Basically, DoJae is most charming in the least expected ways.

 

 

 

 

It’s spring, on a Wednesday, because Doyoung still remembers what day it is even if he’s been alive far too long and far too often.

 

 

 

He’s just met his mortal financial manager.

 

 

 

Soon after that puny discusion of eathly wealth, an accessory of trying to live among humans, his senses activated. 

 

 

A whiff rifts the steady currents of the wind, something he hasn’t encountered yet something he knew.

 

 

 

He can hear it, in the flow of the air.

 

 

 

Doyoung is a principal god who’s always been too wary and too cautious—too afraid, sometimes.

 

 

 

 

 

_(Inconceivable – for an immortal god to be terrorized.)_

 

 

 

 

He struts the downtown pavement when the presence gets magnetizing, something quite godly, and he turns his head around a little bit. He stops on the sidewalk, leather soles on worn out concrete, and he closes his eyes and breathes. Once he opens them, he sees series of busy shops filled with a sea of people – a child on a cradle of a dying father; a bus of toddlers not ripe enough to taste the anguish of being pummeled by metals.

 

 

 

 

 

But in the sea of awaiting deaths, there is life – a single life so alive.

 

 

 

 

 

He zeroes in on a lonesome flower shop in between a retail café and fusion restaurant.

 

His feet walks on their own, as if gravity escapes the earth and the force shifted to the den of flowers. Quick on his feet, he cross the streets paying no attention to any souls. There’s a chalkboard outside of the store with  _Four Seasons of Spring_ written in a neat handwriting. No frills, not even a simple cursive, a little bit of impersonality on the sans serif except there’s a colorful chalk doodles of poppies.

 

And then, Doyoung sees  _him._

 

He’s pulled together and his life flashes in front of his eyes and everything makes sense, right at that moment. Eons of qualified solitude, of moans of the dead’s plights and promises, suddenly bleed out when that person, that god, inquires to a shop assistant with a yellow apron, “How much for a bunch of baby’s breath?”

 

“Jaehyun,” he whispers, like he instantly knows.

 

Jaehyun turns around and he flinches. His be-dimpled smile freezes and then, turns sour. It’s ugly and Doyoung does not want to see the God of Spring Growth look like he’s forced to front a smile like his divinity is at stake – like the face mortals makes when he himself collects their souls in seemingly untimely death.

 

(Doyoung is not exactly the god of death, but years of job descriptions blurring each other have him saddled with additional titles that come with more responsibilities. All he does was to herd the souls thrown in the Underworld.)

 

“Would you like yours in arrangement or just by themselves?” Jaehyun asks. His pink lips curl around the words slowly, deep voice reverberating in Doyoung’s sternum. The fear in his eyes morphs into something completely different, akin to wonder and then, a little bit of amazement. It shocks him—even other gods trembles in his presence that he cautiously suppresses, hides, because the terror that he bears is the one that drives anybody insane.

 

(And yet, here’s Jaehyun, peering up at Doyoung with an indiscernible gaze. He can’t place it but it’s not fright or trepidation.)

 

Doyoung shakes his head, replying, “No. I’m sorry. I was just passing by when I felt another—presence.”

 

Jaehyun's smile turns tighter at that, lips pursed but nonetheless still attractive. “I’m not  _here_  for long.”

 

Doyoung nods—Jaehyun’s mother has always been overprotective. Soojung only has Jaehyun and she’ll never let her son wander too much in the mortal world—never let Jaehyun  _wander_. It’s surprising that Jaehyun is even here instead of the paradise Soojung has imprisoned him in.

 

He straightens the lines of his suit and Jaehyun’s eyes widen a little bit, as if he has read Doyoung’s thoughts.

Jaehyun’s source of fright was not his presence, but that of his mother’s wrath.

 

Doyoung plays with the cuff on his left hand and he murmurs, “I won’t tell Soojung.”

 

(He vows to drown the secret among the cries of the dead.)

 

When Doyoung descends to his abode in the Underworld, he had twilight in his eyes, coupled with a slight upturn on his lips, crooked, all while curiosity running in his veins. He’s vaguely aware of Jaehyun—most of them in conjunction with the overbearing Soojung—but this is the first time he has gotten a glimpse of the hidden god, the God of Spring Growth, and Doyoung thinks, the epithet is only rightful. Jaehyun can make flowers bloom with a sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

When he reached his blood red quarters, he quells his exhaustion by fleeing from the confines of his suit. He unbuttons his dress shirt, revealing his moving black inks, scribbles – names of souls of the dead, their plights and resonating prayers while they were undisturbed and among the black living tattoo, snippets of porcelain skin matching his face. Soon the words crawled up his neck, then his face and soon the words engulfed his thoughts.

 

 

Those were today’s prayers of the souls. Some chants profuse of profanities condemning comrades’ betrayals, resentment to brothers. Some whispers fortune to the beloved, health, happiness and fulfill-ness to the one’s in life.

 

He sits on his throne, enduring the rapid prayers. It says a lot about him that something made out of misery feels like home.

 

 

 

After hearing the prayers, a servant comes up to him carrying a tray and he plucks out a crystal goblet filled with blood red wine.

 

 

 

 

Gods have always loved drowning in booze, even if they cannot get drunk.

 

 

Doyoung takes a large sip and he leans on his right, elbow on the armrest of his throne while his palm is closed in a loose fist and cradling the side of his head. He crosses his legs, left over right, and the goblet dangles on the tips of his fingers uncaringly.

 

 

“Do you know anything about the God of Spring Growth?” He asks, addressing the Hypnos, the gentle god in his kingdom who’s capable soothing the ranging souls with slumber – but for some reason, the dead scurries away from his presence.

 

 

 

Taeil, hums. What was Doyoung thinking? Taeil is always below, aiding him in tending the most notorious of the population of the damned. It is better to ask his twin brother, Thanatos, since he’s the one above, actively harvesting souls from dying flesh.

 

 

 

 

“Where’s your wife anyway.” Doyoung extends his empty goblet asking for another swig of spirit.

 

 

 

 

“Taeyong does not want to be branded as my wife…or my lover.” Taeil said with downplayed sadness in his tone. Hypnos and Thanatos, Taeil and Taeyong, born of the same womb, conceived at the exact moment, hearts singing the same beats but explicitly forbidden by the Night to love.

 

 

 

Robed only with tank tops and ripped jeans, Taeyong graced the chambers of underworld gods with his presence. His dead eyes twinkles with mirth when he laid his eyes on his brother.

 

 

 

As Taeyong rampantly tackles Taeil to reunite, the bottle of wine spills red on the floor. They were smiling to each other. Doyoung likes seeing this moments but he doesn’t want any spills in his floor.

 

 

 

 

“This is gross” referring to the scene. “And this is gross.” Pointing to the marble floor with puddles of red as if someone was brutally murdered.

 

 

 

 

"How come you’re this energetic when you have to harvest violently?” Taeil said while caressing Taeyong’s face with serene fondness.

 

 

 

 

“What makes you think I’m hunting wretched souls tonight?” Taeyong inquires as he tries to squeeze his body between Taeil’s embrace. “Oh the clothes. Yeah. I didn’t seduced teenagers to their death, I just pretended to be an old man’s rebellious grandson. –used to be a wise man but he’s suffering from dementia. His grandson tried to dispose him years ago with cyanide but it backfired. Poor soul, he has to blame himself all his life.” Taeyong reminisced.

 

 

 

Taeyong has a lot of adventures up with the mortals, and his stories about the life before the dead welcomes Hades is bringing vigor to the room because he had to exaggerate everything.

 

 

 

“Have you seen Persephone?” Doyoung asked.

 

 

 

 

Taeyong turned his head to attention to Hades, seemingly astonished. His hands crept up Taeil’s shoulders and clinging hardly on his brother’s form. “I swear, by the Gods. I never ever had to do anything to help him escape. Don’t tell mother or Demeter.” Fearing their own mother, Nyx, is only logical because she does not favor his affair with his twin brother and fearing the harvest Goddess is cannot be contested when her son is involved.

 

 

 

 

“Relax. I’m just curious.” He waves Taeyong’s anxiety.

 

 

Out of the blue, Taeil asked “Did you see him today?”

 

 

 

“Last year.” Taeyong paused “But I fled like Zeus’ mortal toys when Hera goes for them.”

 

 

 

 

 

Even the Olympians never had a minute to gaze upon Demeter’s son.

 

 

 

 

“Saw him today.” Doyoung sips the final wave of the wine.

 

 

 

 

“Did you run?”

 

 

 

 

“I talked to him.”

 

 

 

 

“-Ballsy…” that was Taeyong

“-Idiot…” that was Taeil.

 

 

 

 

“-But lucky” They said in unison.

 

 

Doyoung waves them off and he stretches the arm holding the emptied goblet. He placed the precious goblet in the diamond-crusted tray, signaling his retirement.

 

 

“Why do you think I’m lucky?” Doyoung asked in confusion. Meeting him is like an eon of punishment to the gods, even members of the pantheon. (One time Ares boasts she saw Persephone’s figure watching over the impending World War, Demeter casted drought and caused famine over all the lands on both sides for decades and every military men are forced to be farmers rather than casualty of Ares’ entertainment.)

 

“Dead souls whispering that they have encountered Persephone said that he bring happiness in his words, in his presence.” Taeil, the one who always talks to the dead below said.

 

 

“And so are the humans above.” Taeyong confirmed.

 

 

 “You’re smiling, Hades.”

 

(He is no person, no mortal, but gods, it seems, are also vulnerable in the face of Jaehyun.)

 

Doyoung laughs out loud.

 

(He is, he realizes. He really is smiling.)

 

 

 

 

 Summer has passed tad bit faster. But for some reason, he wants it hundred-fold faster. He wants to witness spring again.

 

 

He wants to see him again.

 

  

But chances are slipping.

 

 

Spring is far as foreseeable, even the god is nowhere to be found.

 

 

So he saunters to the brothers of destiny.

 

 

Doyoung visits the Moirai and he finds them among the mortals in Las Vegas, owning a high-class fortune telling boutique and selling charms and antiques.

 

 

“Greetings to the King of the Underworld,” Renjun drawls. “To what do our humble selves owe the pleasure?”

 

 

“I think,” Doyoung sits down in front of the three siblings, unbuttoning his suit jacket with his back straight and feet planted on the plush carpet, “you already know what I am doing here.”

 

 

 

Donghyuck smirks, “Of course, we do. This is about Jaehyun, the beloved child of Soojung.”

 

 

The Fates presence were nauseating. They had two much presence cooped  in a single point. They were little children, appearing like they were in the last spurts of puberty yet they exude vile auras. The stench of death in their atmosphere severely contrast their appearance of vital juvenile.

 

 

 They stare through him, past him, irises turning into an unnatural shade of blue-green from the usual point black. Chills go down from the top knob on his spine down to his tail bone and he instinctively curls his toes inside his Italian dress shoes. The spinner, Jisung, smiles a bit but it’s predatory. There’s a glint in his eyes that is so apparent in the light shade the color of a placid sea.

 

 

“You are envious of him, Doyoung,” Jisung says after he measured a mortal’s thread of life. “And maybe something more—curiosity. Or.”

 

 

 

Donghyuk’s cutting of thread signaling the final hours of a human brings forth less than the chill than that of the change in their stares, from measuring looks to dawning horrified realization.  The three youthful forms has more murdering airs than that of their ravenouos sisters, Kers.

 

 

“We cannot interfere in the hands of destiny.” Renjun warns sternly, the bequest of knowledge comes with the curse of secrecy prevents them from spilling what’s on the edge of his lips.

 

 

“I am not here to ask for a favor,” the God of the Underworld replies. He crosses his legs and takes a deep breath, linking both his hands on top of his knee. His back remains perfectly vertical and his shoulders are strong in its breadth.

 

 

“Then, tell us,” Donhyuck requests. His dainty hand gestures towards Doyoung and the rings on his fingers glimmer under the scattered lighting of the room. The long earrings pierced on each of his lobes sway, catching glare and throwing rainbows on the man’s face. Donghyuck’s features remain neutral as he carries on, “Tell us what you want, King of the Underworld.”

 

 

 

Doyoung breathes out, “I want to see Jaehyun again.”

 

(He has a lot of things, has wanted a lot of things, but this one—Doyoung yearns for.)

 

 

Jisung bents his head to the right and his eyes run up and down Doyoung’s seated figure. “You want too much, Doyoung. You do not want a glimpse of the God of Spring Growth again—you want to see him _always_ , whenever your whim arises, but Jaehyun has been hidden by Soojung somewhere—nowhere.”

 

 

“But it is a place that gods can go to, no?”

 

 

Both of Renjun’s eyebrows raise at that.

 

 

“Yes,” and as if stating the obvious, continues, “you want to know where it is.”

 

 

Doyoung remains mum but he tilts his head a little with a smirk on his own lips. It’s a show of challenge, a dare. The light dims a little bit and Donghyuk visibly bristles.

 

 

(Only Doyoung is brave enough to provoke the temperamental Fates.)

 

 

“Then we will tell you,” Donghyuk says through gritted teeth. Out of the three of them, he’s the one who is easily riled up. “The God of Spring Growth resides at the liminal between reality and nonexistence, of dawn and dusk, of mortality and the pantheon.”

 

 

Renjun grins like a shark. “He is lonely, King of the Underworld. Alone by himself in the most beautiful place to ever exist.”

 

 

Jisung bites his lower lip and his eyebrows furrow, almost meeting in the middle. He says, “Perhaps this is meant to be.”

 

 

The Daemon Moirai turned to Doyoung again and the shadow-encrusted wildfire eyes dissipated into onyx, like the fates passed verdict on upon his biddings. Doyoung remains on his spot, sitting the same way—confident.

 

 

The three of them say slowly, simultaneously, dragging the syllables like a curse and a blessing at the same time, “King of the Underworld, you do not know what you are doing. Spring will never be the same again.”

 

 

Doyoung, like any person or god whose life has collided with the existence of the Fates, leaves the boutique with coldness in his bones.

 

 

(Yet, there is warmth in the pit of Doyoung’s stomach, creeping up into his chest and enveloping his heart. He knows where Jaehyun is.)

 

 

 

 

 

Doyoung is in the  _nowhere_ that the Moirai have pointed him towards—at the sky’s cradle, at the cuspate of dawn, at the cuspate of dusk, in the lining of cosmos, in the firmament of eternal spring where the stars are the most beautiful without the pain of tantalizing and burning.

 

 

Of course, he thinks, Soojung is a principal god too. She can give only the best to her beloved son.

 

 

Doyoung is behind a tree, far enough that his concealed presence will not be felt—though the worry is unfounded with his Helm. He’s in casual clothes this time—a crimson t-shirt and dark jeans. The sun rays here where the warmest, the liveliest, and his tattoos, the prayers of the dead, were a lot more bearable under the beams of light.

 

 

 

 

(He likes this place. _He_ hates this place)

 

He spies Jaehyun on the front porch of his tiny cottage, sitting down on a white swing. Doyoung hears the shrill creaking of the metal and he wonders how secure the bolts are. Jaehyun is holding a hardbound book his legs are tucked close to his chest, looking like a tiny ball with a woolen quilt wrapped around his shoulders.

 

 

 

 

 He tries to focus more on the docile god’s utterance. Doyoung hears Jaehyun mouthing the words softly to himself and he closes his eyes, knees week as he slumps down on the green earth. His head is in between his knees and he takes calming breaths, letting them even out.

 

_( A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:_

_Its loveliness increases; it will never_

_Pass into nothingness; but still will keep_

_A bower quiet for us, and a sleep_

_Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. )_

 

 It was a passage of Edymion, Keats’s wretched poetry of love between a dumb mortal shepherd prince and a goddess. In the Underworld, John Keats himself utters poems to lull him in a revitalizing trance. But the poetic mortal refuse to reprise that poem because of its lack of substance. The creator himself confirms his dissatisfaction and deemed it worthy of damnation.

 

 

Coming out of Jaehyun’s lips, it was as if he’s whispering his thoughts on Doyoung, relaying emotions in bold confessions.

 

 

Doyoung imagines, even if he cannot see with his closed eyes, being with Jaehyun. Maybe his head is pillowed on plush thighs as small hands run through his hair until Edymion sounds like Keats’s opus magnus to Doyoung’s ear just because it is Jaehyun who is reciting the words.

 

 

 

 

 

Doyoung leaves gold and silver and jewels behind for the most beautiful treasure of all. He returns everyday to see the God of Spring Growth as longing settles deep inside him like an unshakeable fog.

 

 

His muscles and his joints move like they are enthralled every time deep melody springs forth from Jaehyun’s throat and through his lips. Doyoung sometimes pulls out his ballet lessons from more than a hundred years ago, learned when he’s a lonesome boy—almost a man—in the cutthroat dance studios of Paris. Doyoung extends his legs and he points his toes, reaching for the distant memory of wooden floorboards and handrails in front of endless mirrors and competition.

 

 

The God of the Underworld loses himself with the motion and Jaehyun’s voice makes him feel like a moving artwork even if he butchers the dance of graces.

 

 

 

 

Everything makes Doyoung ache completely, wholly, utterly.

 

 

 

 

This must be how Prometheus feels, chained to a rock and a food for the eagles but never dying. He had him, few more steps to see his glory but all he can is to cast his gaze from afar, leave a piece of his treasure in exchange of the Spring god’s simple existence, hoping each time he left a piece gold, a fragment of his heart would left his body, until the day he doesn’t feel any ache anymore.

 

 

Doyoung wonders if this will ever be enough, to be able to look at Jaehyun from afar with his fingers twitching near his thighs, yearning to touch and to hold just once. Maybe in the next few centuries, when he has grown accustomed to the phantoms and the ghosts of non-existence culminating in to unrequitedness.

 

 

Gods are selfish by nature and Doyoung is no different.

 

 

Deeply, he wants to own this beauty, cradle him in the cup of his hands.

 

 

 

 

But gods can never own other gods—they’re not mortal playthings.

 

 

 

(He’s not even sure if he wants ownership when the desire for possession is spilling through his suppressed hope for reciprocation _, to be owned and to be possessed too_.)

 

 

This is the punishment for the gods.

                                                               

 

The tragedy in this: Doyoung is a god and gods like him do not have anyone to pray to.

 

 

 

 

It goes around, naturally. Deities live eternal bastardized lives and they need entertainment.

 

 

 

 

Whispers echo within the halls and penthouses in expensive cities all over the world, sometimes in quaint coffee shops, sometimes in loud, flashing clubs.

 

 

 

 

“He was there, lurking.”

 

 

 

“He left a –“

 

 

 

“And Hades –“

 

 

The gossip of Doyoung being enamored with Jaehyun, eventually, reaches the ears of the chief gods.

 

 

 

In the flattened peak of Olympus, he feels the weight of Soojung’s glare. Doyoung lets the other god stare as malignantly as she pleases.

 

 

Youngho adjourns his speech with a flamboyant and overdramatic wave of his hand. Doyoung nods and says bids his salutations, signifying his departure. It’s all unimportance disguised as formality at this point. There isn’t any need for divine intervention.

 

 

(The God of the Underworld thinks wryly that the mortals are luckier than him.)

 

 

She stands up from her seat beside Youngho and Soojung shoots him a harsh look before leaving in a flourish of terracotta silk and a single hoop gold earring. The goddess of harvest stomps towards the exit and even Joohyun and Suengwan go out of their way to avoid her. The two other gods have both of their eyes trained on Soojung’s retreating figure before they turn to approach Doyoung.

 

 

“Be careful,” Suengwan says. Her voice rumbles and Doyoung knows what the Goddess of War is cautioning him against. “You don’t want your mess to cause any imbalance within the mortal world and the pantheon, Doyoung.”

 

 

Joohyun smiles slightly and Doyoung supposes this is something the Goddess of Love and Beauty can understand. She claps Doyoung on his left shoulder, face gentle, commenting, “Devotion looks appealing on you.”

 

 

Doyoung opens his mouth but Joohyun silences him with an index finger against his lips and a shake of her head. Her hair is a vibrant indigo now.

 

 

 

 

 

“Hush your worries. If it is meant to be, then it will be. You’re a benevolent god, Doyoung. For millennia, you have to endure the damned prayers and summoning deaths of the deceased. You tend their raging souls even if you can hear them but never grant any. And for that perseverance no one in this flock of gods deserves one good thing of happiness more than you do.”

 

 

The Goddess of Love and Beauty, Venus herself, turns on her heels, Suengwan following suit. The love goddess’s hand searches for Seungwan’s and Doyoung watches as the two of them leaves the room, hands in a gentle intertwine like both of them have never started wars and have never incited deaths that have given Doyoung multiple headaches and dark bemoaning.

 

 

He’s about to depart for good when Youngho grips his right elbow, almost wrinkling his suit. Doyoung turns to the other god and he smiles.

 

 

“Bright hues suits you,” he comments, grinning playfully at his sibling’s new hair.

 

 

“Thank you,” Youngho beams, impishly. Their relationship has gotten better after centuries of jealousy and animosity, of Doyoung now crawls out of the Underworld and visiting the Earth as a mortal.

 

 

Doyoung asks, “Is there anything you need from me?”

                                                         

 

Youngho’s smile slips off of his face but instead of the anger or the reprimand he’s expecting, it’s replaced by sadness. “Care to walk with me, brother?”

 

 

Doyoung nods and the hand on his elbow loosens. They’re a striking pair—Doyoung in his suit, no tie with the buttons open to show his tattoos, and Youngho with his long straight shining auburn hair and leather jacket.

 

 

 

The heels of Doyoung’s dress shoes click against the marble in a pleasant rhythm and Youngho’s white sneakers create almost no sound. They make their way outside and the sun shines bright and beautiful but Doyoung thinks it is lackluster comapared on the liminal where Jaehyun lives, all vibrancy and color.

 

 

“This month’s end, when the moon is in its cycle’s fullness…” Doyoung turns to his brother but the King of the Gods is looking somewhere distantly. He has knowledge of it, the moon aspect of Olympus, where Olympian deities of the moon blessed their believers.

 

 

 

 

 

Will this be an invitation to be a part of one sky? Then who will carry the duties below?

 

 

 

 

Taeil is too uptight to rule – instead quelling the dark emotions, he’ll steer the haunting rather than the damned souls. For the God of Sleep, Taeil loves to brew silent paranoia.

 

 

 

 

Taeyong’s not exactly popular with other Olympians either; he will cause trouble one way or another – indeed the 2nd in line to Hermes.

 

 

 

 

 

They continue walking, passing a thicket of olive trees. “Jaehyun is not going to be watched by Soojung and you have the Helm, Hades.”

 

 

Doyoung’s eyes widen and he stops in his tracks. His old name feels foreign to him now—it has been so long since people have referred to him as such with actual reverence. He tugs at his brother’s arm before turning the other god to face him. Youngho’s countenance is an expression of resignation and secrecy.

 

 

“What are you talking about, brother?” Doyoung asks, accuses, in a course manner.

 

 

“You know what I am talking about, brother,” Youngho shrugs. “Soojung always has her protection over the small paradise. There’s no room for escape except on the twenty four hours of every month when she has too pour her eyes out for the mortals. I believe that is how Jaehyun can wander out for a moment.”

 

 

Doyoung nods dumbly. Is his brother implying that he—

 

 

“Soojung will take a long time to know if you hide Jaehyun within your realm.”

 

 

“Youngho,” Doyoung sighs disbelievingly. “Why are you telling me this?”

 

 

The other god turns to look at Doyoung straight in the eyes, holding both their gazes with authority. There’s sorrow in his irises and Doyoung thinks maybe his brother is still atoning for his sins from the past thousands of years.

                                                          

 

“You’re a kind god, almost altruistic, even. Doyoung, you’re better than we all were—are—and,” Youngho chuckles a little, shaking his head in what seems to be rueful amusement, “I want you to have this one thing. I want you to be happy, my dear brother.”

 

 

Doyoung feels himself tremble from his brother’s words and he almost breaks down because he’s so lonely, he’s been so lonely for centuries, for millennia.

 

 

(Gods are selfish by nature and Doyoung  _wants._ )

 

 

 

 

 

On Sunday, Doyoung grabs a soft button down in white, leaving most of the buttons undone. His tattoos are stark against the pale fabric and he tucks it underneath slim cut trousers. He looks too pure donning spotless white, like he would walk out to pray instead of planning an abduction of a god.

 

 

 

 

The suit jacket is tailored and cut to the last millimeter and he brushes his hair back in anxiety and excitement. He keeps the cologne to a minimum and he wears the Helm with pride as he stays suspended on the border of the pantheon and the mortal world.

 

He sees Jaehyun lying on a white sheet placed over the green grass. The God of Spring Growth looks ethereal—almost ephemeral, like he’s not a member of the divinity, like he can disappear once Doyoung blinks. Jaehyun is serene in his pastel pink sweater and there’s Buttercup bud growing on his hair out of nothing. He’s surrounded by tiny flowers in pink and baby blue and lavender and yellow and of violet.

 

Doyoung  _wants_.

 

(Jaehyun looks ready for a funeral.)

 

His feet is light on the soil and his heart skips a beat when Jaehyun closes his eyes and his long eyelashes flutter shut against rounded cheeks. He takes one step, and then another, and then another until it registers to Doyoung that this is the first time he’s been this close to the other god.

 

 

(And,  _oh._ Jaehyun has light freckles dotting on his face like constellations and Doyoung wants to trace his index to discover the infinity of the patterns from the stars caught on the other god’s skin.)

 

 

He hears Jaehyun hum a tune and he stops in his tracks to listen and enjoy the fleeting moment, knowing this may be the last, knowing Jaehyun may hate his very being to the point that he cannot grant him a melody after what he’s about to do. The notes on the other god’s lips fly with the wind and the melody etches itself on Doyoung’s existence like the misfortune of the dead except that it’s not. It’s Jaehyun.

 

 

Doyoung reaches for the Helm on his head and he’s about to pull it when the God of Spring Growth opens his eyes and the sunlight hits them just so—illuminating the light hazel and Doyoung’s heart jumps from his chest cavity up to his throat because the gold irises seem like they’re looking at him directly even if he’s supposed to be invisible to everyone, deities included.

 

 

He watches, frozen in the middle of flower beddings, as Jaehyun’s face takes a contented smile as he shuts his eyes once again. Putting his faith to no one, Doyoung takes a deep breath—

 

 

 

 

— _and with great remorse for the deity of renewal, of the remorse born of his forced solitude, of the remorse multiplied by known consequences of them all, Hades strikes the firmament of spring, crushing barriers of cosmos and dragged Persephone down on the shadow-infested mouth of the Underworld._

_The violent suddenness ascertained that Persephone trembles, torn away from the calm of sleep.  Hades dumps him near his feet but he utters a soft apology to the world, because this is not what he wants, truly. Another apology to the God of Spring growth because he was once pleasant in the eyes, but what he may became will be shadowy, used to sear light will be reduced by a mere glow in his darkness._

_And despite these immense repentance, he’s here—with the God of Spring Growth slumped on the floor of his chariot like he’s a simple toy_ —

 

 

—and he grips Jaehyun’s waist, gentle and careful, afraid of breaking the other god even if he is immortal. The captive doesn’t fight as the King of the Underworld snatches him from his paradise with the intent of bringing him to the fields of the dead.

 

There’s shock on his alluring features, mouth parted open and Doyoung wants to lean in to steal a kiss, to just take and take but the truth is he doesn’t want Jaehyun to be empty.

 

Doyoung is a selfish being but he stops himself from pressing his lips against the other god’s pouty ones just in time.)

 

 

 

 

 

Doyoung settles Jaehyun on his throne and the anguish and the cries of the souls engraved on the gold seep through the marble that is Jaehyun’s face. The God of Spring Growth appears out of place in between the armrests of death and opulence. The pink sweater that he is wearing and the Buttercup on his hair casts invigoration –stark contrast to the eternal bleak seeping all over the Kingdom of the Dead.

 

 

He goes down on one knee, forearm resting on one bent leg, and he’s careful to maintain distance so that none of him is touching any of Jaehyun. He peers up at the other god and he feels so small from the scrutiny of the confined god looking down on his kneeling form.

 

 

(It’s ironic. Here is Jaehyun, minor god of spring growth, and beneath him is Doyoung, King of the Underworld, and yet it is Jaehyun who is sitting down on a throne wrought in dead’s moans and it is Doyoung who is kissing the ground underneath his toes.)

 

 

Doyoung stares, unflinching, into deep pools of golden brown, mesmerized at the richness of earthen hues. And if Doyoung thinks Jaehyun is beautiful in the middle of green meadows and bright flowers or during dusk, when the fireflies illuminate his face to cast shadows on his soft features, then obviously, he’s only partially correct. Jaehyun is even more of a divinity than he already is, looking like he has transcended immortality, sitting down on the seat of power in the most powerful realm in the pantheon.

 

 

“You’re so—” Doyoung sighs. Jaehyun is so bright, seemingly too much for the world to bear. His beauty lies not only on his face but in his smile and the way he pulls a note long before it trembles and the kind way he talks to nature like spring will come faster because Jaehyun asks nicely. Like a stupid mortal, Doyoung continues, barely making the words out of his mouth as he shakes his head in resignation, “Gods, Jaehyun. Do you see how beautiful you are?”

 

 

He watches as Jaehyun flinches, shoulders hunching and fingers curling tight into fists. There’s a slight tinge of surprise and an apparent worry with the way his plump bottom lip gets caught in between straight teeth.

 

 

Doyoung’s eyes soften, whispering, “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want, Jaehyun.”

 

 

Jaehyun holds his gaze and he wants to shrink in on himself when Jaehyun, whose expression has finally calmed down into that of neutrality, replies, “Then why am I still in the Underworld?”

 

Doyoung doesn’t have an answer to that so he bows his head low, begging for absolution that he knows will not come.

 

(He remains selfish—greed flowing through hubris.)

 

 

 

 

 

It’s been almost two weeks and the intertwining Buttercups in Jaehyun’s hair have long gone dead. There isn’t anything that can stay alive in the fields of death. Doyoung has given Jaehyun his own room in citadel – a lush bed of the softest fabric in the center of all the bejeweled furniture, a collection of the finest books of the wisest men that have ever been born and died, name all the luxuries and Doyoung has it for him.

 

Doyoung comes down from the mortal world carrying multiple paper bags and boxes wrapped in silk ribbons. He walks across the long halls of his home, making his way to where he knows the God of Spring Growth always is.

 

 

 

 

Jaehyun’s in the library of his home—in the armchair near the large window, feet propped up in the ottoman. He’s reading Thoreau’s Walden while the grand chandeliers open the words of the book with their light.

 

 

“How are you today, Jaehyun?” Doyoung asks. He slumps down on the plush rug beside the foot rest, letting everything he has bought to carelessly litter around him, and Jaehyun who now has a two-toned carnation blooming as his crown looks away from his book and down at Doyoung. There’s a hint of smile playing on his lips.

 

 

“Fine,” he answers. “Thoreau is an interesting man.” Jaehyun closes the book, index finger still in between the pages to keep track on his progress. He twists around, running his hand on the cushion and pushing it on the crannies.

 

“What are you looking for?”

 

“A bookmark,” the shorter god answers.

 

 

 

 

“I don’t want to lose where I am.” The declaration handed Doyoung a slap.

 

Doyoung hums and he watches as Jaehyun turns this way and that, even hanging a little off of his seat to peer on the floor. Doyoung shakes his head and he pulls one of the receipts on the paper bag he’s holding to hand it to Jaehyun.

 

 

Jaehyun takes the slip of paper, eyes running on the printed words, before he folds it three times. He places it secure near the spine and more than an inch of it peeks out. Jaehyun puts his feet down the ottoman and Doyoung watches as the toes curl on the soft carpet. He shuffles closer so that he’s facing Jaehyun directly, as he puts Jaehyun’s socked feet on his lap. He cradles both on his palms, making circular motions on the balls of the other’s feet and wiggling the god’s small toes.

 

 

“How was Earth?” Doyoung detects longing and want in the low timbre of Jaehyun’s voice. Desire forms the moue of his plush lips and the light hazel of his eyes twinkle with yearning.

 

(It looks familiar.)

 

“Noisy,” Doyoung automatically responds. “Buzzing. There are a lot of people.”

 

Jaehyun looks excited at what, in Doyoung’s opinion, are trivial annoyances that come with the fragility of human life.

 

 

“Doyoung, can I—”

 

 

“No,” Doyoung looks up, almost frantic. “I have everything you will need here with me, Jaehyun.”

 

 

Jaehyun’s face noticeably falls and Doyoung’s heart clenches because Jaehyun still wants and wants but what it is that he longs for is never Doyoung. It may never be Doyoung. The God of Spring Growth fancies cemented sidewalks and smog, sunlight filtering in the humidity of packed crowds, honking cars and pedestrians. He would love to see life above than the remnants beneath.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Doyoung’s all gold and diamonds but the crowns and the jewelries he has given Jaehyun glimmers on top of his dressing table, untouched and untried. Marble halls and servants cannot compete with the adrenaline of being alive in the land of the living, he thinks.

 

 

“I have gifts for you,” Doyoung says softly. He tugs the bags closer to himself and he pulls out various articles of shoes and clothing. There’s a wrapped package tied with a string that holds four hardbound books. There’s a box of pastries from a famous bakeshop in Paris.

 

 

Jaehyun refuses to eat.

 

 

(Jaehyun has not eaten anything that Doyoung has offered in the Underworld. It’s smart, he knows, because it’s the most beautiful and heartbreaking way to tell Doyoung that Jaehyun really does not want to be here.)

 

 

 

 

 

Doyoung watches as Jaehyun deteriorates as the sun leaves him and the ichor on his veins do not flood his cheeks red anymore.

 

 

 

Jaehyun’s head was now a bed of anemone.

 

 

He feels heavy with guilt and the burden of his sins when Jaehyun sits on the dining table, gulping saliva as feasts are prepared in front of him—whole roasted pig and chicken, bowls of rich sauces, glimmering honey drizzled on plump figs topped with hefty slivers of almonds, olives filled with feta cheese soaked in olive oil and spices, flavored rice and grains. He watches as Jaehyun twitches and he holds his breath when Jaehyun’s index finger strays on one of the silver utensils lined on both sides of antique porcelain china, tracing the cold metal with the tip and then pulling back as if burnt.

 

(He doesn’t have anyone to ask for forgiveness so, before he goes to rest, Doyoung always prays to Jaehyun in apology. In the way most of the dead prays to him – with dreadfulness and almost always without reverie.)

 

It all becomes too much when Doyoung goes inside Jaehyun’s room to find the god sitting on the lounge chair, flipping the channels on his television. He sits on the other end and Jaehyun turns to him with a bored face.

 

“What is it this time, Doyoung?”

 

 

 

 

He now has jitters of basils, burdock and peonies springing out of his hair.

 

Doyoung cracks a little but he forces a smile as he hands a velvet box to Jaehyun. “I have a gift for you.”

 

 

“Another?” Jaehyun asks, bored. He extends his hand and he grips the box loosely, like it’s something that will contaminate him. He fiddles with the golden lock before he flips it down, lifting the lid. Doyoung watches as Jaehyun’s face remains neutral as he takes in the white gold molding in to a collection of chrysanthemum to make a tiara. There are bright red rubies and diamonds in rare cuts embedded on the expensive headpiece.

 

Jaehyun’s face shutters and he turns a glare on Doyoung’s direction, spitting, “I’m not going to become your consort, King of the Underworld.”

 

 

Doyoung falters and he says, “I didn’t mean it li—”

 

 

“Please get out.” Jaehyun’s voice breaks. The fight leaves his tense shoulders and they droop down in resignation.

 

Doyoung stands up and he makes his way to the door slowly but not before hearing Jaehyun’s dejected whispers, part disappointed and part self-loathing.

 

( _I exchanged a prison for another prison._ )

 

 

 

 

 

“Jaehyun,” Doyoung murmurs. He’s sitting beside the god’s bed and the other is sleeping peacefully. He whispers again, “Jaehyun?”

 

 

Doyoung tucks the growing blooms of Periwinkles behind Jaehyun’s ear, stoking his smooth hair away so he can see clearly his sleeping form.

 

 

The god stirs from his slumber, twisting towards Doyoung and the King of the Underworld watches as thick eyelashes move like butterfly wings against pale skin and Jaehyun’s lips part before he groans. It’s not very god-like but Doyoung finds it amazing nonetheless, to catch a glimpse of mortality within the confines of Jaehyun’s endlessness.

 

Brown eyes open and the light shines on him to turn the pools of mud into liquid gold. There are flecks of green like fresh grass in the morning on Jaehyun’s irises.

 

“Doyoung?” He asks groggily. Both his elbows are sinking down on the soft bed, propping himself up. One of Doyoung’s hands comes up to press on Jaehyun’s back so he’s a little more stable in his position. The warmth of his skin filters through the thin material of pricey silk he’s wearing. Jaehyun doesn’t flinch and Doyoung’s lips twitch when the other’s arms quiver slightly, allowing Doyoung to hold most of his torso’s weight with a single hand.

 

“Good morning,” Doyoung smiles. He can feel his eyes disappearing into tiny crescents. He pushes Jaehyun up so the other is sitting upright, legs stretched out in front of him and his hands hanging loosely on his side. Doyoung carefully wipes Jaehyun’s eyes with his thumbs and Jaehyun closes them on instinct and tilts his head to Doyoung’s direction.

 

“Good morning to you, too, Doyoung.” Jaehyun yawns, not bothering on covering his mouth. “What’s with the early visit?”

 

“I have a surprise,” Doyoung says, leaning closer to Jaehyun’s space. The other god doesn’t react to the proximity.

 

Jaehyun’s eyebrows shoot near his hairline and he asks, wary, “What is it?”

 

“We’re going to up.”

 

(Jaehyun creates a garden inside Doyoung’s stomach when he smiles so big his cheeks bunch up and his eyes forms narrow archs.)

 

 

 

 

 

It has been a long time since Doyoung has been to Greece. The sun is up overhead and the sunglasses on his face dims the world a little bit. Jaehyun’s wearing the Helm-fashioned into a straw hat (hiding a vine of young valerians underneath) and there’s a noticeable spring on his steps as his shoes hit the white concrete. The heat has them wearing thinner clothes, flora printed shirt with expensive dye, and Doyoung has his shirt opened low down his front while Jaehyun has a single button undone.

 

“The last time I was here,” Jaehyun’s says, “the people were still wearing chitons.”

 

Doyoung turns to Jaehyun, eyes wide and incredulous, half-exclaiming, “That was how many millennia ago?”

 

“I can’t remember,” Jaehyun shrugs and his pace slows down slightly. “But Mother was still more lenient and I managed to have three entire days within a small village. I made oil and helped in harvesting olives with the townsfolk before Soojung took me away with a reprimand. She threatened drought on the people who took me in as a stranger.”

 

Doyoung feels goosebumps break into his mortal glamor. Drought means death, in multiples, sometimes in numbers that has him working overtime.

 

“Soojung—” Doyoung pauses. He tries to pick his words carefully, treading on the thin ice that separates insolence and disrespect to uncalled for curiosity. “—is overprotective, isn’t she?”

 

To his surprise, Jaehyun scoffs. “She is. Overprotective seems too light of a word to use as a description for how my mother acts and has acted since time immemorial.”

 

 

Doyoung matches his strides to Jaehyun’s pixie legs and he feels a small hand slither into his before stubby fingers make themselves at home in between his longer ones. Jaehyun’s hand is warm and Doyoung feels like a mortal man, like he can die any moment just because the God of Spring Growth presses himself closer.

 

 

“Jaehyun—” His breath catches in his throat and Doyoung wonders if this is how human beings feel when they’re about to be judged by him, when they’re about to go to Hades. He turns his head sideways, tilting it downwards. Jaehyun meets his imploring eyes and he thinks he’s blushing. Ichor swallows the gold of his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and his knees may have buckled.

 

 

“It’s okay,” Jaehyun squeezes Doyoung’s hand, swaying it in between them and walking. Doyoung almost trips over himself. “I like doing this, Doyoung. And it’s a thank you, too. Greece has always been beautiful. It feels like home, right?”

 

 

Doyoung nods dumbly and he thanks the Olympus that he doesn’t blurt out anything about Jaehyun being more beautiful than the pastel dusk skies and the sparkling rustic sunset-soaked water or how home is where Jaehyun is—in the library of the palace in the Underworld, or the garden Doyoung has fashioned from the dark empty plots of land where Jaehyun has started planting seeds that can survive the eerie ambiance of stifling death.

 

Jaehyun giggles, however, like he has read Doyoung’s mind. He squeezes the pricipal god’s hand once more and his thumb rubs circles on his tattooed skin. There’s a soft grin on Jaehyun’s face. It’s indulgent without pitying and Doyoung feels like a god and a mortal at the same time. Jaehyun strips him of his divinity with a single gaze but his eyes on Doyoung—sweet and compassionate, all springtime bloom and cool breeze in the Elysian fields—make him feel like he can take the entire world in his palms and mold it to his liking.

 

(Doyoung has never felt this much of a deity, a ruler, a king, until this very point in his existence.)

 

 

 

 

 

Doyoung brings Jaehyun to Paris next.

 

His Helm is under glamor to look like a small piece of jewelry weaved on Jaehyun’s brown hair. He had golden celandines matching the elegance of his crown.

 

 

They walk hand in hand, wearing fashionable suits and sunglasses with their Italian leather shoes scraping the concrete as they run aimlessly on the emptier streets. Doyoung dances in the middle of a park as Jaehyun sings something that he has heard vaguely in one of the French radio stations. They giggle to each other inside museums and Jaehyun sticks his tongue out when he sees escargots. Their suits are wrinkled after their adventure.

 

In Bali, they buy matching board shorts in green.

 

 

Doyoung gulps as Jaehyun displays too much skin.

 

In his flawless, sculpted body he only has a lonely innocent coriander to foil his perfect paleness.

 

 

 

 

The heat in his belly is quickly replaced with innocent warmth as he watches Jaehyun run away to the shores and frolic in the waves. The minor god builds sand castles and Doyoung gathers shells to decorate the small structure. Jaehyun says it looks like their home in the Underworld and Doyoung’s chest feels heavy and constricting as the words escape Jaehyun’s lips.

 

 

In Argentina, they visit a book store in Buenos Aires. El Ateneo Grand Splendid lives up to its beautiful name, ceilings reaching towards the clouds and decorated with frescoes from a maestro of the years past. Doyoung and Jaehyun tangle their feet underneath the table in the café on what is once the back of the stage as they pore over their purchase. Jaehyun leans close to read the words printed on Doyoung’s book and their breaths mingle with the mist wafting from their warm drinks. Doyoung wants to kiss Jaehyun—he always wants to kiss Jaehyun—but he settles for pinching one chubby cheek, relishing in the way the God of Spring Growth yelps as he swats Doyoung’s hand with a grin.

 

 

In Seoul, they visit  _Four Seasons of Spring_ again and the same attendant in a yellow apron parts his lips in surprise, eyes comically large. Jaehyun approaches the man and this time, he asks how much the sunflowers are. Doyoung ends up holding two dozens of them in thick Kraft paper as Jaehyun wraps an arm on his waist. He guides Doyoung in the streets of Hongdae, passing by independent boutiques selling quirky items. They end up getting milk teas each and Jaehyun chokes on the pearls as Doyoung laughs so loud his sides hurt, attracting the attention of the other customers.

 

 

The sunflowers end up quickly dying when they return to Hades, withering to practically nothing, but neither of them really minds. Doyoung says that the shoots of little apricot blossoms in Jaehyun’s head is a lot more beautiful than sunflowers anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

The gossip of the crops has brought upon the news of Soojung’s suspicion towards Doyoung.

 

 

 

He has managed to keep the fellow principal god out of his business for months but his and Jaehyun’s careless foray into the mortal world has the flora and fauna murmuring in Soojung’s ears.

 

 

Jaehyun is curled up on his couch, heliotropes and verbenas framing his perfect face while his back flat against the armrest as he reads one of the books they have gotten from Buenos Aires. Poetry escapes from in between his lips, soft with perfect inflections, as Doyoung sits facing him. On the coffee table, there are two glasses filled with wine, a bowl of pomegranate seeds and another filled with plump strawberries, and a plate of biscuits with a variety of cheeses.

 

 

Doyoung takes a deep breath and he reaches for the book that Jaehyun is holding. He pries the text, slowly uncurling Jaehyun’s fingers and placing the leather bound book on the table near the bowl of fruit.

 

 

Jaehyun shoots him a questioning glance, a slight pout on his lips.

 

 

“I—” Doyoung pauses, stops. Jaehyun takes his hands in between his and he doesn’t notice that they’re shaking until the other god caresses his wrist in a comforting manner.

 

 

“Calm down,” Jaehyun says.

 

 

Doyoung nods his head and the sentence slips past his mouth, unbidden. “Soojung is coming to get you any moment now.”

 

 

Jaehyun freezes up and the ministrations on Doyoung’s skin halt.

 

 

“Is she?” Jaehyun asks nonchalantly.

 

 

“Yes,” the King of the Underworld breathes out. The string of words quivers like his long fingers. “You can go with her. I won’t keep you here, Jaehyun. You can go back home to your mother.”

 

(  _Maybe January light will consume_

_My heart with its cruel_

_Ray, stealing my key to true calm._

 

_In this part of the story I am the one who_

_Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,_

_Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood._  )

 

Jaehyun hums and Doyoung’s heart breaks when the god of spring lets go of both his hands with a small smile. This is it, Doyoung thinks. The end.

 

 

“Doyoung,” Jaehyun sighs. Doyoung hears crashing on his ears and his pulse starts galloping as the God of Spring Growth plucks the bowl of pomegranate seeds from the low table, placing it on the space between them. He says softly, with a smile, “I have some things that needed a lot of explaining.”

 

 

Doyoung shakes his head and he cracks, “You don’t. It’s—I’ll take full responsibility in front of the council of gods—”

 

 

“Doyoung,” Jaehyun repeats again. He’s a little exasperated but there’s a hint of fondness in his voice. “You really need to let me talk.”

 

 

The God of Hades flinches as Jaehyun’s index finger traces the rim of the glass bowl delicately. There is still a small smile on his lips.

 

 

“Youngho told you about the secret of my prison because I asked him to,” Jaehyun confesses. His finger stops moving and Doyoung’s heart skips a beat when Jaehyun plucks a red seed with his thumb and index finger.

 

“I knew you were watching me. Not at first,” Jaehyun shakes his head wryly, “but the field I was in was not just a cage but a place that I protect and take care of. It’s more than a meadow of eternal spring, Doyoung. It’s a dome of eternal spring. It is me.”

 

 

Doyoung watches, breath hitching, as Jaehyun takes the seed in his mouth, tongue flicking out to lap the juices.

 

 

Jaehyun continues, apologetic, “I thought if you took me, I’d have more freedom.

 

I hated being in that place.

 

I hated my mother a bit.

 

I thought, the God of the Underworld was enamored with me and I should take advantage of it.

 

 

For that, I apologize.”

 

 

The other god looks contrite and his head is slanted down low. Doyoung finds it harder to breathe when Jaehyun takes two more seeds, eating them with a smile. That’s three of them.

 

 

 

 

Three in a row is more than 3 centuries of damnation. He was forced with two, from Zeus and Poseidon and he felt that they casted him a curse and Jaehyun crunching three evokes the horror of betrayal. He was deeply concerned of how Jaehyun could endure devouring that when even Hypnos, Thanatos and even Hades couldn’t bring a seed in their mouths without the sense of duty.

 

 

Doyoung reaches for the bowl, attempting to take it away, but Jaehyun snatches his hand. He curls his hand against Doyoung’s, fitting his fingers in the spaces between the other god’s.

 

 

“Jaehyun,” Doyoung half begs, “please stop eating. Don’t do this to yourself.”

 

 

(  _How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,_

_My savage and solitary soul, my name that sends them all running._

_So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,_

_And over our heads the gray light unwinds in turning fans._  )

 

 

Jaehyun shakes his head with a laugh. This time, he takes three more seeds and red drips down his pale skin, unnoticed by the other. Jaehyun places them in his mouth and his eyes turn into half-moons as he makes a show of chewing.

 

 

“I spent some months with you and I realized why everyone talked about how good you were among the other gods. You granted me things I’ve never had before and I was extremely grateful.” Jaehyun takes the bowl in both his hands, replacing it on top of the table. He shuffles closer to Doyoung—upright on his knees like he’s praying to god, to Doyoung. “But do not think of this as pity or a payment in exchange for what freedom you have given me. We will have six months in every year for the rest of forever to figure everything out of what we had. To make you see I am not a mystery, the whole half-eternity to spend with each other.”

 

 

Jaehyun leans down and the ichor in Doyoung’s veins turn into blood as they thunder in his ears. The God of Spring Growth presses his plumps lips against Doyoung’s—soft and chaste and innocent—and he tastes sweet and tangy from the pomegranate seeds and a little floral, too, just from being himself.

 

 

“But, Jaehyun,” Doyoung whispers but hope starts forming in his mind. “I don’t want to make you do things you don’t want.”

 

 

The God of Spring Growth laughs softly and he bends his head slightly. His forehead is against Doyoung’s forehead and the god of the dead can clearly see that freckles dotting the other’s face and the specks of green on his eyes.

 

 

“I think the earth can stand a little bit more of Soojung’s wrath so spring can bloom in the Underworld where you are, where we will both be.” He closes his eyes but he hears Jaehyun’s words clearly, lips brushing against Doyoung’s parted mouth. Softly, reverently, Jaehyun adds, “And, Doyoung—”

 

 _You can’t will gods to will_.

 

 

 

_I will._

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Jaehyun’s feelings
> 
> Buttercup – sudden admiration (childish crush)
> 
> Two-toned Carnation – “I cannot be with you.”
> 
> Anemone – forsaken
> 
> Basil – hate
> 
> Burdock – boredom
> 
> Peonies - anger
> 
> Periwinkles – new beginnings
> 
> Valerian – readiness
> 
> Celandine – forthcoming joys
> 
> Coriander – Lust (because two beautiful men spells hot love making)
> 
> Apricot Blossom – diffident love (contrasting the sunflower they bought which means false riches)
> 
> Heliotrope – eternal love
> 
> Verbena – pray to (for) me


End file.
